


Down To Your Knees

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Babysitting, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Come Eating, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Dubious Morality, F/M, Kitchen Sex, Masturbation, Name-Calling, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rick Being an Asshole, Role Reversal, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Underage Drinking, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the kids asleep and a blizzard howling outside, soon-to-be-divorced Rick Grimes is home alone with the babysitter. And he's going to do his best to keep it that way. All. Night. Long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rick is a terrible person. Just terrible.
> 
> At this point, the dubious consent tag applies to Rick's fantasies only.
> 
> Based on "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Rick Grimes is a bad man.

This is something that Rick has only recently become aware of. Just a few months ago, he thought himself a very good man—a rising star in the sheriff's department, a respected member of the community, a man with a growing son and a beautiful wife and another little one on the way. He mowed the lawn and carried groceries for old women and every Christmas donated cans to the local church. He was an upstanding citizen. A lawman. Someone his community could be proud of.

He is still most of those things. He is still a sheriff's deputy—even though the board promoted his best friend instead of him. He is still a father—even though his wife has left him in order to fuck said best friend. He doesn't mow the lawn as often and he finds he has less energy for helping others, but that doesn't change the fundamental things about him.

He is Rick Grimes. He is in the process of becoming divorced. He gets to see his children every weekend (giving Lori free weekends with Shane). After the fistfight in the parking lot he got assigned to another unit, so he only sees Shane at department meetings, if at all.

He is Rick Grimes. He's a father. He has a daughter. He has a son.

And he wants, more than anything else in the world, to fuck his children's babysitter until his cum is dribbling down her reddened thighs.

* * *

It isn't just her thighs he thinks of. Not just her pussy, how tiny and plump it must be. He think of her mouth, soft and sweet and pouting; he thinks of how his dick looks in his hand, and he thinks of feeding it past those sweet and pouting lips, sliding and sliding until her throat constricts around him and her face contorts with pain. He thinks about bending her over the sofa, the dining table, pushing her against the wall and spreading her with his fingers and his dick. He thinks about tying her to the bed, Lori's bed now, open and spread-eagled and so fucked out that her cum soaks all the way through the comforter to the mattress. He thinks of flipping her over, pulling her hips in the air, and slicking her asshole with spit and lube and fucking her till she cries.

When he thinks about it he thinks she wants it. She usually wants it. The times when she doesn't he convinces himself it's only play until the next time he strips his dick and loses himself.

She's 18. She's a senior at Senoia High and she'll be going to Georgia State in the fall. He first met her when she was 11 and she sang in the church choir and her parents brought her up to meet the new deputy in town.

She was a sweet little girl in a pressed pink dress and her hair in twin braids falling down her back. He said hello and complemented her singing and laughed with her parents when she blushed, and spent the rest of the time talking to Hershel and Annette while she wandered off to sit under a peach tree and draw designs in the dirt. When he left with Lori and Carl he waved goodbye and she blushed through her smile and the only times he saw her after that were when Hershel invited him to dinner on the farm.

Lori didn't hire her until after they'd separated, when she needed to become a working mother and wouldn't deign to let Rick help out. To make it easier when the divorce settlement is complete, she told him, as if his absence is a foregone conclusion. It makes him seethe, being pushed aside like this; and it shouldn't, but it also feels like an unmanning. It feels like, by taking away his children, Lori is taking something else away as well.

His dick and balls all rolled up in her handbag, bouncing against Shane's hip as they walk arm in arm.

No wonder he wants to bone the babysitter.

* * *

He blinks hard against his fantasies as he focuses on the road ahead, wishing he'd spent more time with his aunt in Michigan as the blizzard howling outside batters his windshield. He has no idea how to drive in these conditions, so he's barely driving—inching along the road between the station and the house, a journey that usually takes 15 minutes stretching towards an hour. He knows he's one of the lucky ones—most of the cops in his department are still on duty, but he's pulled so much overtime lately the chief practically forced him to go home—but still, part of him is annoyed that they couldn't have let him go just an hour earlier, before the blizzard was set to begin in earnest. And begin it did—set to be the largest snowfall Georgia has seen in decades, already a few inches coat the road, with more being dumped from the sky every minute.

By the time he turns into his own driveway— _Lori's driveway_ , he has to remind himself with a scowl—he's sweating beneath his uniform and cursing the universe for making white the first Christmas he'll spend as an almost-divorced man. It isn't Christmas for a few more days, and he's invited, of course— _invited to his own fucking house_ —but he figures the snow will stick around until then. It would be just his luck, at this point.

It takes more effort than he expects it to, fighting his way through the wind and the cold to the front door, and slamming it shut behind him is one of the most satisfying feelings he's had in a while. He leans against the door for a few moments to gather his bearings, calm the shivers wracking his body even after that short walk from the car. Prepare himself for the new bout of shivers to break out, when he hears her.

And hear her he does, talking and laughing in the living room. He can hear the faint sounds of video games coming from Carl's room upstairs, so he knows she must just be with Judith. He can't imagine what they have to talk about; most of his time with Judith is spent changing her diapers or holding her while he watches a Braves game. But not Beth—she speaks to the one-year-old like a fucking person, at least when she thinks Rick isn't listening.

She's quiet around Rick. Very quiet. Quiet enough that he wonders what exactly goes on behind those quiet eyes that laugh so loud when she's alone with his child. Wonders what about himself silences her.

He shakes his head sharply, trying to dislodge the image of a nervous Beth sinking into the couch from his mind. He succeeds, for the most part; but the part that doesn't is sizable enough that he'll have to be sure not to meet her eyes when he goes in to say hello.

There isn't anything of her eyes to meet when he goes into the living room.

She's bent over. Red felt dress barely covering her ass where it sticks in the air, white tights snug around her thighs. He can't see anything beyond her hips; she's half-inside some sort of blanket fort draped across a pair of dining room chairs, backed by the sofa, Judith's toys strewn around her. Her tiny feet wrapped snug in the tights lie flat on the floor, keeping her balance as she pitches forward, throwing her ass up higher.

Rick knows he should leave the room. Rick knows he should make his presence known. Rick knows he should turn around and go outside and stick his dick right in the snowbank where it belongs.

But knowing and doing are such different things, and Rick knows that all he'll do is stand here, breathing silently as his academy instructors taught him, watching the ass swaying in the air before him. The dress is just thin enough that he can see the outline of her panties, even through the tights; modest, sensible coverage, probably made of plain cotton and gotten from one of those five-packs you can pick up at grocery store check-outs. He can't picture her spending much time on her clothes—a little browsing when it's needed, trips with girlfriends. The Greene family is pragmatic enough, maybe they even give each other underwear for Christmas.

He hasn't gotten Beth a Christmas gift yet, he realizes. He'll have to think about that. Think about something other than panties.

She's moving, he realizes; backing up as if to pull her head out of the fort and a spike of panic rocks thorough him because he hasn't announced himself and his jacket barely covers where he's half-hard.

“Beth,” he forces himself to say.

She jumps—God, why does her ass have to jiggle like that—and then she's crawling out more quickly, spinning around to sit on her heels and look at him, breathing a little heavily. Her eyes are wide and cheeks flushed and hair escaping the bounds of her ponytail and if Rick didn't know any better he would think she had just been fucked.

But no. No. She's just surprised to see him. She's reacting like any woman would, to a man surprising her.

“Rick,” she says. He tightens his jaw against the breathiness in her tone, tightens it more when she smiles shyly. “I thought you'd be home earlier.”

Rick clears his throat, stripping off his gloves to keep his hands busy. “The weather is wicked out there,” he says. “Could barely see three feet in front of me.”

“Good thing you're alive, then,” she says with a small laugh. She glances back at Judith, then stands, walking over to Rick so purposefully that he almost takes a step back. “Here, lemme get your coat, you're dripping all over everything–“

“You don't have to–“

“No, no,” she says, circling behind him, pulling his jacket gently but firmly from his shoulders. He lets her do what she wants, standing stock still and willing the blood back towards his brain before he does something stupid. Lori hasn't taken his jacket like this in years. “If you get stains on the carpet I'll have to own up to it, and I'd rather I keep getting paid, thank you very much.”

Rick glances back at her despite himself. “Lori'd dock your pay if you get water on the rug?”

Beth shrugs, clutching the damp jacket to her chest. “Y'never know.”

“And you'd take the fall for me?”

She shrugs again, walking away in the direction of the hall coat closet. “Figure you got enough to worry about with her.” She peaks her head out of the closet, calling back, “Shoes too.”

Rick snorts, walking back to the hardwood of the entry way and getting another nice view of her ass as he passes the closet and sees her stretching to hang the coat. “Yes, ma'am,” he says, ripping his eyes away and trying to convince himself to feel bad.

They fall silent for a few minutes, Rick shucking his shoes and Beth closing the hall closet and returning to Judith while Rick goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water. There's a line of spotless plates lined up in the drying rack, hand towel hanging neatly from the oven. “You didn't have to do the dishes, you know,” Rick calls.

“I know,” Beth says, coming in with Judith in her arms. The baby—going on toddler, now, Rick has to remind himself—rests as easily against Beth as she ever has. Beth's only been watching her for a few months, but Judith took to her from the beginning like she'd been caring for her since birth. Rick can't deny the spikes of jealousy he feels sometimes, seeing the child go from cranky and whining in his arms to quiet and content in Beth's; but he supposes some people just have a knack for it. It's not like he did such a great job with Carl as a baby, either. “Didn't have much else to do,” Beth says. “Carl went up after dinner and Judith was playing so I figured, why not?” She smiles briefly, lips fluttering across her face like a leaf dancing in the wind. “We started the fort when you didn't get home on time.”

Rick raises his eyebrows. “Judith do much work on that?”

Beth laughs—head going back, eyes closing, line of her throat standing out long and pale—before looking back at him, smile still on her beautiful lips. Rick takes a gulp of water. “Yeah, she did most of it. Grabbed the chairs and everything.” Beth pauses, smile freezing. “I hope you don't mind me moving the furniture, or going into the linens. I can put it back–“

Rick shakes his head, swallowing quickly to get all the water down before he chokes. “No, no, don't worry about it. It's good you did it. Looks like Judith had fun.”

Beth's smile softens again, the way it only does when they talk about the child; she looks down on Judith's downy head, presses a kiss to what she can reach. “She did, didn't she?” Beth says. Judith sticks her thumb in her mouth in response, looking serenely into the middle distance.

Rick wishes suddenly that Judith would look at him—meet him with eyes that still retain the bright blue of childhood, that might hold that hue longer, instead of muddling into a brown that could be Lori's or—

“Rick?”

Rick's head jerks up to see Beth looking at him with concern. She always does that, the brief times they speak. Interrupts him when his thoughts get too loud. He doesn't know whether to be thankful for it or not.

“Yeah?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“You ok? You looked sorta off for a second.”

“No, no, just...” He looks at Beth—looks at her wide open eyes, holding nothing but concern—concern for _him_ , piece of shit he is, cause he's still thinking about her ass in that dress even as she holds his baby in her arms—and finds himself being honest. “Just wondering if Judith is mine. As usual.”

Beth tilts her head, sighing in sympathy. “Rick, it doesn't matter who _made_ her. She's always gonna be yours.” She smiles. “I can start calling her Miss Grimes if you want. Get that in her head early.”

Rick chuckles, shaking his head. “You're something special, Beth.”

He drains the rest of his water. Sees Beth's blush only from the corner of his eye. Keeps it there, in the corner, where he isn't going to let himself think about it.

“Anyway,” he says, his voice far too deep for the situation as he turns to the sink to rinse his glass, “You do a good job with her. So thank you.”

He turns to catch the end of Beth's shrug. Her blush still lights up her face, but it's lessened, at least; doesn't stretch so far down her neck, doesn't set the already red dress on fire. “It's my job,” she says.

“You got any other jobs?” Rick asks, and he realizes that he's being strange. He's never talked to her so much before. Usually a, “Hi, Beth,” “Here's your money, Beth,” “Drive safely, Beth.” Not a conversation like this. Not asking about her life like he's getting to know her. Like they're friends or something.

But Beth seems willing to roll with it, shrugging again in answer to his question. “I mean, I help Daddy around the farm. Between that and school I don't have a whole lotta time left.”

Rick frowns, fingers playing with the glass still in his hand. “If you need to cut back on hours–“

“No!” Beth says. She blushes again at the enthusiasm of her response, looks down at Judith to push a lock of hair away from her face. “Nah, it's fine,” she says, much more casual. “Carl and Judith are easy. I get plenty of school work done.”

Rick nods, once, short. “Good,” he says. He looks down at the glass, then up at Beth; she's waiting there expectantly, like she's waiting for him to say something, or do something...

Rick shakes that thought away with a grimace, turning to put his glass in the drainer. He lingers there, facing the dishes that she had cleaned; trying to shove away the image of him stepping forward and kissing her—kissing her, right there in the kitchen with his baby in her arms; then maybe taking the baby _out_ of her arms, putting her in her pen, turning to find Beth still waiting and wanting for him—

“So,” Beth says, making Rick jump and she yanks him out of the fantasy. He realizes he had been subconsciously rubbing himself against the cabinet, and pulls away with a hiss. He doesn't turn around as she keeps speaking. “Is it ok if I get going?”

“Yeah,” Rick says, voice more broken than he wants it to be. “Yeah, I'll get your money—“

“It's ok, Lori paid me ahead. Maggie's getting married so I needed money for presents—“

“Didn't pay the overtime—“

“Rick.”

Rick turns and she's there—a step away, smiling through the five-inch difference between them, baby held to her chest and blue eyes sparkling.

Rick swallows, sets his hands on the counter behind himself.

When she speaks, he's glad for the support.

“You'll just have to owe me something else.”

Rick blinks. He blinks again. He blinks again as she steps away with a shy smile, then turns to Judith, hoisting her up. “C'mon, Miss Grimes,” she says, “Let's get you all ready for bed...“

Her voice fades as she leaves the room, and with her absence Rick finally lets himself slump and grab his crotch, squeezing hard with a groan.

“You stop that,” he mutters. “You stop that, jesus christ–”

But Jesus isn't going to answer him for this one.

Rick groans again, and rubs his eyes. He's tired, _god_ he's tired. If nothing else it will be nice to sleep in his own bed again.

 _Sleep_ _alone_ , he tells himself, heading for the bedroom, Beth's chatter chasing him up the stairs. _Sleeping the fuck_ alone.

But he can't help it—he's already here, panting from the walk up the stairs and his own thoughts, the blood rushing to his dick, and if he forgoes saying hello to Carl and slams the door a little too loud it couldn't possibly be his fault, it couldn't; cause he's in this room and he's seeing her—seeing her where he saw Lori so many times. Not for a while, not a year and then some; but he saw her.

Lori was comfortable with her nudity around him, as he supposes most married women are with their husbands. She'd walk from the bathroom without a towel around her body, sit at the foot of the bed to dry her hair; grin up at Rick as he approached her, saying something about just getting clean before he pushed her down to the bed. Gently. He was always gentle with Lori, and she preferred that, he knows. At least she never said anything different.

He thought about other things sometimes. Just sometimes, usually when he'd had a hard day at work or she was acting like he'd done something to piss her off. Pushing her down, but _pushing_ her—covering her with his body and ripping off her clothes and to _hell_ with making love; he'd fuck her so hard she'd feel it into next week.

And now Lori's gone, and there's Beth.

She'd be shy. He doesn't doubt she'd be shy. She's shy with him anyway, even with her clothes on—and always such demure clothes, with so much coverage. With a short dress, she wears tights; a low neckline, an undershirt. Like she doesn't want him to think about what's under there; or she wants him to think about it too much.

And he thinks about it. He scrambles at his belt and he stands in front of the dresser mirror and he pulls out his dick and oh, _oh_ , yes, by _god_ he thinks about it.

The dresser mirror is positioned with a perfect view of the bed; something he and Lori didn't really take advantage of but with Beth, he would. Have her start out slow; get used to him, like. Get used to the thought of being with a man—and in his mind she's a virgin, she must be a virgin, rumored boyfriends be damned—and a man like him; tall, strong, the arm of the law. He knows the voice he uses to get subjects to their knees; in his mind that's the voice he uses with her. Tells her to strip her clothes, but she's embarrassed, so embarrassed that she almost gets up to leave but _no, no baby, no, that's fine—we ain't gonna do anything you don't want to do. You just stay right there, sweetheart, and I'll stand here, and we'll talk. I'll just talk to you. That's all we'll do._

_You feeling ok, sweetheart? You're all red, squirming all around—you want my hands on you but you don't wanna admit it yet. That's fine, sweetheart, that's fine; I don't have to touch you, you don't have to take your clothes off. Nothing you don't want._

_I got an idea. See that mirror over there? The one you can see your pretty little self in, yeah, that's it. Why don't you just look at yourself and think of what it'd be like if I was with you. You thinking yet? Yeah, what are you thinking? You thinking about me laying you out, spreading you under my body like I'd spread the cream between your legs—don't think I won't—spreading you out like that; between your knees, holding your wrists. I'd be gentle, I promise, my darling; I'll only do what you ask me to do._

_What are you asking me? You're asking me to kiss your neck? I can kiss your neck, but I think you want more. Little sluts like you always want more; they want their titties sucked, that's what you want. You want it too, don't you? That shirt's so thin, you're asking for it—you've been asking for it this whole time, you little slut, looking at me, walking around in those tight jeans, just waiting for this—and look at those tits, they're hard, aren't they. Why don't you touch them? No, don't look at me—look at the mirror. Look at yourself, look at that slut, touching her tits—you're all alone, baby, don't worry, just watching yourself, just exploring—go under the shirt, now, why don't you. You don't have to show me, but watch yourself; watch your face, look at that pleasure, look at you loving yourself—yeah, and you're imagining it, aren't you? Me on top of you, holding you down, kissing your neck and taking a sweet nipple between my teeth and biting, sucking, stretching out that tit till you cry out—and then a little more. You like that, huh? You like it hurting a bit? I'd bite harder then; bite till you're begging me to stop cause you're scared how much you like it._

_Why are you squirming like that, baby? You aren't getting wet, are you? It's ok, sweetheart, it's ok if you are—I want you to. You're wet thinking about me? Aw honey, that's so nice; I like that so much. Why don't you show me—don't have to take anything off, nothing at all, just stick your little fingers down there—go on, you can do it, watch yourself do it, you can—oh, baby girl, look at you. Soaking your panties with that, aren't you? Just soaking yourself, just from me talking—you want this to end? Ready for me to touch you yet? No, I don't think I will. I think I want you to get yourself off first. Yeah, in front of me, baby, I want to see you feel so good. You've never done it before? Well that's just fine; lean yourself back, just like that, keep those eyes on the mirror—still want those jeans on? No, that's fine, it's all fine, sweetheart, only what you want—now touch that little pussy again. Get those fingers in there, feel how wet you are—dripping cause you want a cock so bad. That's what that's for, you know. Get you all wet, all ready for my dick in you, stretching you out, hurting you so good, baby—_

_No, it won't hurt, baby. Not if you do this. Touch yourself, sweet girl, that's it. Nipple too, don't forget that. God, you look delicious, you do, you are—I just wanna eat that creamy cunt right up, lick you up and down and live there for days—and I will do that. Even if I gotta tie you to the bed first, I'll do that. I'll tie you up and do what the fuck I want with you, that tight little cunt, over and over and over—_

The dresser rattles as Rick collapses against it, groaning loud enough he's worried for a moment Carl might hear—groaning and splattering the wood, painting the perfectly cured oak a milky white, the antique they found in Lori's grandma's attic, covered in his cum, now, dripping towards the carpet as he stands and pants and...

And god. _God_ , he doesn't want Beth to leave tonight. He doesn't even need this; doesn't need all of this, the bed, the mirror, the ropes... just to be with her, learn what she smells like way up close...

He looks at himself in the mirror, and he looks _wrecked_. And he is. He supposes he is. Wrecked by this slip of a girl with pouty lips and the perfect ass and the sweetest voice that sings his daughter to sleep; is doing that next door right this minute, he thinks, and bless these thick walls or she would've heard—but what if she did hear—what if she heard and she knew what he was doing for her, all for her, stripping his cock till he came all over Lori's antique dresser...

He looks at himself. At the badge on his uniform. At the stubble growing in around his jaw, tinged with grey. At his eyes, predatory, piercing, _mean_.

Rick Grimes is a bad man. He's a bad, bad man.

And he's gonna find a way to make this girl stay the night if it kills him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got through the first chapter you know what you're getting into. So. Warning for more of Rick being terrible. 
> 
> Please review <3

It isn't until he's got his uniform off and is splashing water across his face that he remembers the blizzard.

Remembers it, in fact, when a tree branch slams against the window inches from his face.

He stumbles back a little, the water he'd had cupped in his hands spilling all down his undershirt. He looks down, cursing under his breath—then looks back at the window. At the winds howling, the sky gone dark, the roads slippery and desolate and treacherous.

He's out of the bathroom and down the stairs before he can talk himself out of it.

“Beth!”

She looks up from where she's buttoning her coat, eyes widening a bit at his appearance. He comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, breathing a little heavily, hands shaking.

“Rick?” Beth asks, eyes flicking from his eyes to his chest. “Everything alright?”

“You can't go,” he blurts.

She frowns, fiddling with the buttons of her coat. He's surprised she isn't backing away and reaching for the mace. “Excuse me?”

“You can't­–, I can't let you go out in this,” he says. “The weather, you know it's–, I barely got here in one piece and you gotta take all those back roads...“

Beth blinks at him, then turns towards the front windows. It's almost pitch black outside; the porch lights on the house across the street flicker in and out of sight, but for the most part it's dark as a moonless night, all from the snow.

“Well, I mean...” She turns back to him, looks at his chest, up to his eyes, still chewing that damn lip. “I don't wanna impose...”

“No imposition at all,” Rick says, shaking his head and leaning on the bannister. He's finally getting a little of his breath back, although she's still looking at him like she thinks there's something a bit wrong.

“Well... ok,” she says. “Just till it blows itself out.”

“Yeah,” Rick lies. “Yeah. Just till then.”

“Ok.” She smiles tentatively and begins unbuttoning her coat. “Couldn't'a said something before I got my coat on?”

“Wanted to see you take it off.”

Beth's fingers pause and Rick's heart stops but he doesn't let his gaze waver. Looks at her like he always looks at her, whatever that is; tries to appear rational, innocent. Like whatever she's reading into that statement is an invention of her mind.

She continues unbuttoning her coat and Rick turns around to go back up the stairs. Once he gets to his bedroom he curses himself under his breath. He can't talk like that. She'll see right through it. She'll get suspicious, nervous. She'll leave.

He doesn't know what he's keeping her here for. He knows what he wants, of course; he looks at the dresser which he had wiped down hastily with a wet wad of toilet paper, looks towards the bed, feels his treacherous cock begin to fill up again—but is he willing to take it? Should he pursue her body or the pleasure of her company?

He'll go with the flow, he thinks. If she doesn't oppose the lecherous old man, that's what he'll be, because that's what he feels—like some creeper luring children into his van.

 _But Beth isn't a child,_ he reminds himself. Not with that ass. She's 18, and the law says that's old enough.

She doesn't act like a child either. There's a self possession, an intuition, that he's never known children to have. She doesn't treat him like a father figure, he doesn't think. He hopes. He doesn't know what she treats him like but that isn't it.

He needs to make a decision, he thinks, pulling off his wet undershirt (which he realizes now had gone transparent under the water) and replacing it with an old Braves t-shirt, a knit sweater, his trousers with jeans. He needs to think of what he's going to do with her. He's her host, after all, on a cold winter's night when she could be curled in bed with a book, watching the show fall. Curled up with a boy, maybe; some high schooler too scared to touch her tits, unable to read the signals as she shimmies her bottom back against his crotch, laces their fingers together against her stomach, under her sweater, so close to her burning heat.

Rick would know what to do with her; how to make her feel right. The first step is getting her there.

* * *

In the end, he hardly needs any planning at all.

He waits upstairs until he can hear Carl getting ready for bed—he's meeting some friends in the early morning, or else Rick knows he'd be up till midnight—before steeling himself and heading downstairs.

She's pulled at the blankets covering the fort until they're suspended high enough for her to sit under and still see out; and when he comes down, quietly as he can, she's sitting and watching the snow fall. She's sitting cross-legged; turned away from the doorway, so he can't see up her skirt, but she's got her hands in her lap, head tilted softly to the side. He supposes it would be a more peaceful sight without the howling wind, the streaks of white zooming past the window; but he still pauses in the doorway, watches her serene face under the soft incandescent lighting.

He doesn't think he makes a noise, but suddenly her face is turning towards him. She doesn't seem surprised to find him standing there, or put off. She just smiles, straightening up a little until her head brushes the canopy.

“You had dinner yet?” she asks. “I made pasta. Nothing special, but Lori's got some real nice sauce.”

“I ate at the station,” Rick lies. Truthfully, he had a granola bar and a handful of M&Ms when he was upstairs; he just doesn't really want Beth moving from this room right now.

“You sure you don't want any? There's plenty left.”

“I'm sure,” he says. He pauses, then says, “Want some company?”

She pauses for a moment—a moment when he's sure his heart is about to beat clear out of his chest—before nodding, smiling that sweet smile again.

“Alright,” he says. “I'm thinking of making some hot chocolate. Some of that, maybe...?”

She nods again, smile widening. “I'd like that,” she says. A lock of hair has fallen from her ponytail, and with an elegant hand she swipes it aside. “Thank you, Rick.”

He nods, struggling not to swallow too visibly, and heads for the kitchen.

He's got to pull himself together if he wants this to work, he thinks as he pulls down the cocoa mixture and a pair of mugs. Can't come at her too obviously, or she'll get spooked before he even has the chance to get the mood right.

Cause yeah, he knows so much about setting a mood. His first time with Lori had been in his dorm room with Madonna blasting so the creaks of those godawful dorm beds weren't too audible. His roommate had dropped in halfway through to grab the weed stashed under his mattress.

 _That isn't going to happen here_ , Rick thinks, sliding the capsule into the Keurig. _Judith's asleep, Carl's about to be, they're in the middle of a goddamn snowstorm, for Christ's sake, and she's a teenager drunk on hormones..._

It's with that thought that his eyes drift to the corner cabinet. And even as he switches out the first mug for the second one, his heart is pounding. He doesn't know if Lori changed things around after he left, or if Carl's discovered the hiding place, or if they're just out. But when he was living here, that's always where they kept...

He drags over a chair from the kitchen table. Opens the cabinet. Levers himself up as gracefully as he can.

And there it is. One single, unopened bottle of port, covered in a slight layer of dust. Old, then. Forgotten. Lori will never notice he took it.

He climbs down off the chair, replaces it at the table. Finds the cork screw, opens the bottle. Hovers over the two steaming cups of cocoa. These are big mugs. There's plenty of space left. All he needs is the bravery to pour.

Bravery. The lunacy, maybe. The criminal intent. Serving alcohol to a minor under his guardianship while his children sleep upstairs.

He pours wine into each mug until the liquid teases the brim, painting the thin chocolate a rich maroon. He sticks each mug into the microwave for a few seconds until their surfaces are steaming again. Gives him some time to relax her a bit through conversation, fortify her trust, before she discovers what he did.

Or maybe she won't. Maybe the chocolate flavor will be enough to cover the wine. Maybe she'll drink and drink and drain it all and ask for another with a flush climbing her cheeks.

Rick leans his forehead against the fridge for a moment; gathers himself, settles down, mediates the voices screaming madness from the tip of each shoulder. Mediates, too, the gathering heat in the pit of his stomach; how he already feels a little drunk, the way the blood is deviating from his brain in anticipation.

These are loose jeans. If he keeps his cool, sits the right way, he'll be fine. They'll be fine.

And depending on how tolerant she is of alcohol, an accidental glimpse of his boner might not matter much at all.

* * *

When Rick walks into the living room and doesn't see her he swears for a moment that his heart stops.

Then he notes that she's pulled the fort canopy lower again. He sees her white-covered toes sticking out onto the rug. She's turned down the dimmer, too, so the room almost looks bathed in candle light.

He takes another deep breath, catching a whiff of the drinks as he does—it doesn't smell like hot chocolate but it doesn't smell like wine either, she might not question it, it's ok—before walking forward to stand just outside the entrance to the fort and clear his throat.

There's a moment of silence, then some shuffling, and then she's holding the canopy up with one hand and sticking her head out, blinking up at him owlishly.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” she replies. She gives him a smile, then gestures for the drinks. “Here, I'll take those, easier not to spill 'em.”

He hands them over—taking a moment to be proud of himself that his hands aren't shaking enough to be visible—before drawing in a deep breath and crawling into the fort.

It seems that Beth's dug up bits of Lori's interior decorating phase; a cluster of flameless candles flicker in the middle of the space, throwing off golden light and the subtle scent of vanilla. He can smell other things, too; the drinks quickly fill the fort with their rich odor; there's the wooly scent of the carpet, the Febreeze that Lori uses on the sofa; and underneath it all, the subtle scent of sandalwood. Rick looks at Beth as he crawls inside, meeting her eyes for a moment before she turns away to finish arranging herself, and Rick wonders if she was wearing the perfume this whole time, or if she put it on when she knew it would be just her and him. Whatever it is, he likes it; he likes it a lot, especially as it swirls with the chocolate and the wine, and he wonders whether it would have been a better idea to spike only her drink; his decisions are impaired enough without throwing alcohol into the mix.

But he manages to crawl into the fort; finds the whole thing lined with throw pillows, likely to keep Judith somewhat penned in. They make for a cozy space, too; and as Rick settles with his back against the sofa, letting the canopy drop to seal out all but the floor of the living room, he feels more than a little like he's gone through the looking glass.

“Sorry if it's a little tight,” Beth says. She has the drinks sitting near the flameless candles, just far enough away that they won't melt the faux wax; her legs are tucked carefully underneath herself, knees sticking out from beneath her dress and arching back towards her shapely calves. She's leaning against the sofa too, but sideways, facing him, and sitting mostly upright; he wants to tell her to relax, but he doesn’t think he's earned that yet. “I only made it for me and Judith,” she continues, giving a rueful smile. “Just little people allowed in here.”

Despite himself, Rick chuckles, shifting a little to finish getting comfortable. “You aren't that little.”

“Well. Littler than you.”

Rick forces his chuckle this time. He knows she's littler than him. Smaller. Much smaller. Five inches shorter, probably 60 pounds lighter, if not more. He could do anything he wanted to her.

 _Easy_ , he thinks to his crotch as it begins to pound in excitement. _We're not forcing her into anything. That's not who we are_.

When he started addressing his dick as its own subjective entity, he doesn't know. All he knows is Beth is sitting there, slim legs tucked underneath herself, eyes fixed shyly upon the hands folded in her lap.

They're alone. Fully alone, for perhaps the first time since Rick has known her. She's always had the baby in her arms, or Carl banging around in the background. But by now Carl is in bed. Judith is snoring away. They're alone, enveloped by a snowstorm and a house and a blanket fort Beth made for his child that he's now imagining as a place more in line with the curtained corner of a brothel. It's that kind of lighting; that kind of closeness. All they need now is music, pounding and low, flowing through their bloodstreams until they collapse and converge like the river beneath a waterfall. Rick can hardly hear anything over his own heart.

Not that there's much to hear; there is Beth's quiet breathing, his own, slightly labored. In a brothel he knows it's the woman's job to get him comfortable, but Beth isn't a whore; she's a good girl. Even if her thoughts run in the same direction as his, she's not going to act on them. Not without some prompting.

The silence has gone on longer than it should. He can't tell if it's a comfortable silence or not. Nothing will be comfortable for him until he takes care of the situation in his pants—but how does she feel? She's sitting with her employer, close enough that she can probably smell him, stale sweat from the day— _and isn't that a sexy thought_ , he thinks—does she feel forced? Does she want to be here?

In his fantasies he sees her resisting. Backing away from his encroaching form, pushing at his chest, trying to hold her legs shut as he pries them open an inch at a time, reveals the glittering wet of her helpless body. It heats him up like nothing else, this little blonde kitten fighting him.

But still. He looks at her down-turned face. The loose strand of hair hanging precariously from her ear, her spine hunched and shoulders tight likes she wants to make herself as small as possible. She's nervous. He doesn't know why she's nervous. She could feel awkward. She could be scared. She could be aroused, and not want to be. And he likes that thought; he likes it very much. But the thought of her sitting there uncomfortable because of his presence strikes something sour in him. He doesn't like that at all.

But he doesn't know what to say. He's caught between thoughts of her pussy and the young girl before him and if he opened his mouth he doesn't know which one he'd be speaking to.

Thank god, then, that she speaks first.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” she says.

She looks up as she says it. Looks him in the eye, a flush on her cheeks. He wants to kiss her in the worst way.

Instead, he answers.

“Nothing to thank me for,” he says. “Ain't letting you go out in that.”

“Still, I would have gone,” she says. She laughs, short and musical. “Mama always says I'm a smart girl without a lick of sense. Go to put out a fire in the barn and leave the stove burning at the same time.”

Rick finds his mouth quirking up at that. “You've done that?”

Beth rolls her eyes. “ _No_. We've never had a fire in the barn.”

Rick chuckles despite himself, relaxes more fully against the front of the couch. She seems to be unwinding too; there isn't as much tension in the air. It feels cozy, not restrictive.

“Don't know how I feel letting you near my stove now.”

“Judith keeps an eye on things, I promise,” Beth says, eyes sparkling. “She'd holler before anything bad happened.”

Rick chuckles again, bends one of his knees to rest his elbow on. “That's good to hear at least.”

They lapse into another silence, but this one, at least, Rick can tell is a comfortable one. Some of the rigidity has gone out of Beth's spine and she sinks into the pillow beside her in something approaching a lounge.

“How've you been getting along with Carl?” Rick asks

Beth smiles— _when will this damn girl stop smiling?_ —and says, “Real well, I think. I don't see much of him, cause he's up there playing his games so often...” A flicker of uncertainty crosses her face. “I've never asked Lori, but I assume that's alright? I have him down for dinner and sometimes a movie or something, but I'm not much older than him, I don't feel right ordering him out of his space–“

“You're plenty older than him,” Rick snaps. Beth blinks, taken aback. Rick draws in a sharp breath, berating himself. “I mean... don't feel like you don't have authority over him. If he's mouthing off, take him down for it.”

Beth shakes her head, pulling her knees in tighter. “Oh no, it's nothing like that. I just didn't know if you wanted him out of his room more.”

“You're the boss when you're here. It's your choice.”

“I thought _you_ were the boss.”

The way she says that—a sly slide of her smile, voice going high at the end like a question, or a child—it has Rick reaching for his drink, taking a gulp before checking the temperature. Luckily, it's cooled down enough not to scald; he still swishes it around in his mouth before swallowing, though, closing his eyes a little at the hit of port on his tongue.

It isn't subtle at all, and he's wondering if he ought to take Beth's back to the kitchen and swap it out for real hot chocolate—

When he sees she's followed his example: picked up her mug and taken a sip, working it around in her mouth.

Her brow scrunches in confusion, and Rick holds his breath.

“What's in this?” she asks, looking between the mug and Rick; not accusatory, but baffled, like she really has no idea. “Extra cardamon, or...”

“Put some wine in,” Rick says, voice a little hoarse. Her whole body stills at his words as she stares at him, not even blinking. “Figured you deserved it, not being able to go home and all.”

“Oh,” she says. She looks down at the drink, swirls it in the cup; takes another little sip, upper lip sticking cutely over the rim of the mug. He watches her expression as she stares into the concoction, a little knit between her brows. “Tastes weird.”

“It's just port,” he hurries to say, “Just opened the bottle, ain't spoiled or anything–“

“No, I mean...” she licks her lips, looks at him through her eyelashes. “I've never had alcohol before.”

“Oh.”

 _Oh_.

Rick swallows, shifts as inconspicuously as he can. He'd been sure she'd had a drink at some point; he knows about Hershel's troubles, but she's a teenager for God's sake; surely she's been to some party–

But this is Beth. Good little Beth. Still sipping at the drink he spiked for her, cheeks already going rosy with the heat and the buzz.

“I can get you something else. If you’re more comfortable.”

“No. No, this is fine.” Beth smiles at him, a little twitch. “A night for new experiences, huh?”

Rick wishes he'd brought a blanket down from upstairs. His jeans feel positively indecent.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. He takes another gulp of his drink, hoping it will settle his nerves.

 _Nerves_. Like he isn't the middle aged man out to seduce a teenager. Like it's the other way around.

And god, she looks nervous. Sipping her drink, practically vibrating with it, knees clenched together like she knows how bad he wants between them. Giving him little sidelong glances like he's a wolf she's trying not to look in the eye.

God, this is fucked up.

“What does your boyfriend think about that? You not drinking?”

 _Fucking hell_.

She doesn't seem all that put off by the question, though. Just licks her lips, waits to swallow before she answers.

“I broke up with Jimmy a few weeks ago. So... don't have a boyfriend to think anything about it.”

Rick tries to stifle the football stadium full of people cheering in his chest; shows them only in a puff of breath. “You broke up with him?”

“Yeah,” she says, taking a larger sip. She pauses for longer this time in swallowing, blinking into the middle distance. Her cheeks are definitely rosy now. She's barely drank a third of the mug. “It just didn't work out, you know.”

“Why?”

She looks at him; tilts her head and scrunches her nose. “You really wanna hear about this?”

“Wanna hear everything about you.”

She gives him that look again; long, slow blinks, like every fall of her eyelids is a chance she's giving herself to figure out what the hell is going on here. He feels himself heating under that look, a flush of his own spreading below his collar; he isn't sure, but he thinks that for a moment she looks.

But then she's turning away; shrugging, and sipping, and letting her knees fall a little apart. “Jimmy... we've known each other since we were toddlers. Our mamas have been picking out the wedding china since we turned five. It was too much pressure.”

“You wanna be free, huh?”

“From Jimmy.” She looks at him, head on. She doesn't blink this time. “We're practically the same age but he's always seemed so much younger than me. Didn't understand why I didn't want to go to parties with him, why I didn't...” She flushes, dark and full and Rick feels his pulse race. “Something was always missing. That's all.” She takes another gulp. Her mug has to be half empty by now. “You met Lori when you were my age, right? In high school?”

“Freshman year of college,” Rick says. He hasn't drank as much or as quickly as she has, but even he's feeling the effects of the wine; limbs going heavy, head swimming. “We were in the same English class.” He snorts, alcohol making the memories fond. “She was falling asleep, first time I noticed her. Head on her books, trying her damnedest to keep her eyes open. I asked if we could study together the next day.”

“That's sweet,” Beth says. “Lori's never told me that.”

Rick snorts again, more derisive. “Well. I doubt she's got much good to say about me at this point.”

“She does,” Beth says. Rick raises his eyebrows, and Beth squeezes her shoulders together. “I mean. She misses your cooking.”

Rick laughs, a bark. “She should,” he says. “She can't cook for shit.”

Beth giggles, a little higher than usual, a little looser. The drink's getting to her.

“She does always have me make extra when I'm cooking. Not that I'm an expert or anything.”

“I think you're pretty damn good.”

Beth rolls her eyes, her whole head following the motion, causing a strand of hair to fall from her ponytail. “Anyone can boil _water_.”

Rick chuckles and reaches out, tucking the strand of hair back behind her ear. “You tell that to Lori and lemme know what she says.”

Beth doesn't respond, and Rick's confused until he realizes that his hand hasn't dropped yet; is lingering, tracing a path down her neck to settle at the juncture of her shoulder, swiping his thumb out to feel the smooth skin of her collarbone.

He knows he should be panicking. Should be pulling his hand back, asking if she's ok with this, apologizing, _something_ —but he doesn't say a word. Looks into her eyes as she takes a long gulp of her drink, tilting her head just a bit, just until her ear brushes his knuckle. He sees goosebumps jumping up on her skin and he feels answering ones on his own arms.

God, he wants to fuck her so bad.

Eventually, though, he feels his arm getting sore, and he lowers it; watches her eyes follow its track to where it lands on his own thigh, sees her gaze move along the tightness of his jeans.

She bites her lip, flicking her eyes back up to his, and Rick swallows. Shifts in his seat, and knows she knows what that means now. Sees her begin to curl in on herself again, small, afraid.

Rick has to close his eyes for a moment so he doesn't pass out.

When he opens them Beth is draining her drink, long neck extended, throat bobbing as she empties the mug, sets it on the carpet with a clearing of her throat. There is a definite flush to her cheeks now, one that runs down her neck and below her dress. Rick wants to see how far that flush goes.

“You talk to Lori recently?” Beth asks, voice like the rumble of a bass drum.

Rick shakes his head, finishing his own mug. “Not if I can help it.”

“You ever miss her?”

“My dick does.”

He watches her carefully as she digests his words, a swallow working its way down her throat.

“You haven't been with anyone else...”

“Didn't want to be.”

Beth's breathing is definitely faster now; he can see it in the push of her tits against her dress, sees her pulse fluttering in her throat. He drags the heel of his hand down his own thigh, retaining just enough presence of mind to keep it away from his dick.

“Didn't?”

“Didn't.”

“And now?”

He lets the question hang in the air; dangle like a mobile from their darkened tent, flit through the shadows the blankets cast. He feels the wine heavy in his blood now, weighing him down, pressing him forward, and in the end it's gravity more than anything else that presses his lips to hers.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** This is 7,000 words of dubious consent and Rick being very, very happy about it. Reminder: Rick is not a great person in this story.
> 
> (But Beth isn't a victim either. Please trust me on that.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and remember to comment :)

Even in the coziness of the room, of the blankets, of the fort, she's warm. Not burning, not a furnace, but like the candles she has glowing—except not electrical, real, flickering with flame, fluttering against the air like her lips are against his, well on their way to trembling. He's cupping her face, holding her there; can feel the movement of her jaw as she swallows, a sound that builds in her vocal cords but never reaches her tongue.

Her tongue is dormant, and she isn't breathing, and she isn't kissing back.

Rick withdraws slowly. Gives her the time to chase him, to grip his hair, surge herself forward. But she does none of that. Rick withdraws and her eyes are open and as soon as he's a foot away she exhales her breath in one long gush.

“Beth–”

“Why did you do that?”

He has to suppress a groan at the tone of her voice—high and breathless and so, so helpless.

“I wanted to,” he says, stroking her cheek with his thumb, staying soft, soft. He hopes the yellow light of the candles blunts his edges, erases the cut of his jaw; for the moment, he'll be a boy for her. “Been wanting to for a long time.”

“You're married,” she whispers.

“You know I'm not.” He lets his hand dwarf her, cover her from forehead to jaw, feel his size compared to hers. He's not going to force her—he's not going to do that—but just some intimidation...

The thing is, Beth isn't quailing before him, or running away. She looks nervous, a little frightened, eyes wide like lanterns clothed in her flushed skin—but she hasn't tried to shake him off. He moves himself a little closer to see what she'll do and she still doesn't move, save a twitching of her pupils; their bodies aren't pressed together yet but he can feel the heat emanating from her, the twitches of her strings as she vibrates.

“I didn't mean to give the impression...”

“That you wanted me?” Rick licks his lips, smirks when her eyes follow the movement of his tongue.

“That I'd... I'd do this kind of thing.”

Rick leans forward—eyes on her all the time—and kisses her temple, long and wet. She trembles in his hold, one hand coming up to clutch the fabric of his sweater over his stomach.

“This ain't nothing wrong, honey,” he murmurs, kissing along the downy hair in front of her ear, lipping at it until it grows damp. “Just two adults, doing what they want.”

“That's not what I... _oh_.” She seems to lose her train of thought as Rick reaches her jaw, licks along the bone. With some struggle, she picks it back up. “I didn't mean that, just thought you'd think...”

“Think what, sweetheart?”

“That I was taking advantage of you.”

Rick freezes with his mouth on the hinge of her jaw. The sandalwood smells stronger here; she definitely dabbed some behind her ears. While he was upstairs, thinking of her.

_Taking advantage..._

He blinks and realizes that she isn't under his mouth anymore. Isn't pressed against him either; is fallen back on her knees as she picks up their empty mugs with shaking hands, avoids his gaze as she crawls clumsily from the fort and leaves him alone.

He looks after her, mouth hanging open like it's still got something to hold onto. All through tonight he's felt himself as too much body, not enough brain; but now the body isn't even there. He's floating, a mouth and a dick with no nervous system, both limp and slack in their respective places. Drifting through space. Swimming in the wake of the girl in the red dress who thinks he's so unravelled that he's...

 _She's not wrong,_ he thinks, bubbles of hysteria building in his gut, stripes of cum on the dresser. _She's not wrong._

His body gets up and follows her.

She's even more silent on her stockinged feet than he is in his socks, but he hears the kitchen sink going. By the time he reaches the door she's finished with the mugs; has them sitting upside down to dry, droplets of water clinging to their sleek surfaces. She's standing to the side of the sink, hands on the counter, shoulders tight and tense as a board.

She heard him come in, then. She knows he's there.

And it all snaps back. The line of her panties beneath her red dress. The arch of her neck, the swell of her ass, the sandalwood he smelled behind her ear and the other thing he smelled in that fort with her; swirling with the chocolate and the wine and Lori's Febreeze.

She thinks he needs to be taken care of. And maybe he does. But now, now...

She turns her head as if to look over her shoulder, but doesn't finish the motion. Is moved just enough that he can see her parted lips, the flicker of an eyelash, the long soft slope of her cheek. The back of her neck is red and she's in her red dress and he _wants_ her red, red all over, red and tied to his marriage bed and crying.

Her fingers flex on the countertop. He moves without a whisper.

The breath she sucks in is so loud that some part of his addled brain worries she's going to wake the kids. But no; no, they aren't there yet; not when it's just this, Rick standing half a hair from her back, hands settling slowly on the counter on the outsides of hers. She sucks in a breath and doesn't let it out and he doesn't do anything to indicate that she should.

He waits for her exhale—slow, shallow, steadying—before leaning his head down the slightest bit. Looking from his vantage point at the crease behind her ear, the wisps of hair escaping her ponytail, lying against the side of her neck. He breathes out deliberately in a long hot stream that sends the strands fluttering and she shivers all over.

“Now surely the mugs didn't need cleaning that bad.”

“Rick–”

“Shh,” he says, moving his hands in closer, his thumbs brushing her tiny pinkies. “You're gonna listen right now. You're gonna listen, and I'm gonna ask some questions, and you're gonna answer. Won't talk, but you're gonna answer. You understand me?”

There's a pause, and then she nods her head; a small, jerky movement that sends shivers up and down his spine. He's in a sweater and jeans but he feels the pull of his uniform across his shoulders and it's only his sense of timing that keeps him from shoving her down and kicking her legs apart.

“Alright,” he says, and then to himself, “Alright.” He breathes in, deep and slow, taking his time; letting the expansion of his ribcage press himself against her back, allowing the retreat as he breathes out. Giving her that space. Making it feel like she has room to run. “First question. Are you scared?”

He waits, patient as he can. Waits until she nods and he has to bite his tongue to keep from hissing out loud.

“Ok,” he says, aiming his mouth towards her ear, using the heat of the word to make her feel his closeness. “Do you want me to stop?”

Another pause, interminable. And then a shake, side to side, slow, dragging.

Shameful.

“Did you like it when I kissed you?”

She's getting used to it now. There's barely a moment before she nods her head, almost vigorously. Rick drops his head a little, drifts his lips across the top of her ear, lets her feel his smile.

“You want me to do it again?”

A nod. No pause.

“Where?”

“My–”

He isn't careful when he throws his weight forward; knows from her gasping cry that she's hurt herself on the counter, likely bruised a line across her hip. Her back isn't so ramrod straight anymore and he has to lean forward to reach her ear again.

“No talking.”

She lets out a few gasping breaths, fingers squeezing in on themselves. He can feel her moving slightly against him; not enough to make him stop the swaying, but enough to know that she's feeling him there. Feeling his hardness, how much of it there is. He knows some of what goes into her next shiver.

But even that involuntary reaction seems to calm her, and she straightens up a little, letting Rick follow her and pull out of the kink in his spine. She turns her head again like she's on the edge of looking at him, but doesn't; swallows deeply, and lets her head drop to the side, baring her neck.

“Good girl,” Rick whispers, and kisses her.

Her neck is salty sweet with sweat and the long day, and like a flower too long in the sun she wilts under his attention, a sharp gasp bursting from her throat as he lingers on her neck, settling slow, open-mouthed kisses against her skin. Strands of her hair catch against his teeth but he doesn't sweep them aside; uses one hand instead to balance, the other to press against her stomach, feel the tautness, the line of her pantyhose at her belly button. Rick lingers there; doesn't find her panties, not yet, not while she's still mostly-still against the counter, holding herself tight, holding herself against something. She gasps again when he catches her skin between his teeth, and he smiles, presses the flat of his incisors to her neck so she feels it.

“You liking this?”

“Oh, god, Rick–”

Rick rolls his hips, just a little; doesn't want to scare her off, not yet, and he has to keep his mouth against her closed so he can grit his teeth at the feeling of her tight ass against his erection. That ass, god—and Rick collapses a bit against her, bringing her down to her elbows on the counter, sucking fiercely on her neck and fisting his hand in the fabric over her stomach.

She's trembling like a leaf, and he knows what he ought to do. He knows what Shane would have told him to do, he knows what he would have told _himself_ to do—back away. Taste her fright in the molecules in the air between them and take it for the 'no' it is. And if not a no, at least a wait; wait and talk, be adults, sit with her in the fort some more with her head on his thigh, run his hands through her hair, ask her what she wants with him, _if_ she wants with him, tell her what he'd done to Lori's dresser while he thought of her tied up and frightened.

But he can't tell her that—it would scare her off for sure—and it's not like she's pushing him away. Not like she's voiced anything except consent. She indicated that she's scared, but he's scared too—scared of how hot his gut is burning, how he feels feverish, drunk beyond what that wine should have done to him, entire being aflame for the body bent between him and the counter, the breast he now has in his hand, the tiny breast that barely tents her dress but which he feels puckering under his hold. Her head is thrown back, to the side, breath coming heavy, hands unmoving and clenched on the countertop as she moans into his ministrations.

“Rick–”

“What're you thinking, pretty girl?”

God, he doesn't think he's ever heard his own voice like that, not even talking with suspects, definitely not with Lori; rough and deep, almost too guttural to be words, growling like some kind of animal and suddenly he would quite like her on her knees for him; kneeling down, looking up with those pretty pretty eyes, lashes fluttering as he undoes his belt slowly, slaps the leather lightly against her face, just to make her flinch–

But she isn't flinching now; she's still shy, still slow, but he can feel the beginnings of her arching back against him and he doesn't hide the way his cock jumps to meet her.

“God, I want you outta these clothes, pretty girl,” he growls, biting on her ear and grinning at her cry, the way she hunches further towards the counter.

“Why don't–, why don't you do it then?”

Rick holds her tight, almost bruising, trying to get himself under control as those wonderful words spill from her lips.

He could do it. He could yank his pants down, rip through her tights, and _take_ her—none of this pussyfooting around, no worrying if it hurts her or not, just a steady pounding pace–

But no, Rick thinks, feeling how she trembles; no. He's going to draw this out. He's going to make her _beg_ for it.

For the first time since he stepped against her he pulls his torso back; holds her down by the tit when she tries to follow him, breathing out heavily through his nose at the pained cry she gives.

“Stay down,” he murmurs, and she nods, shakily, leaning back into his kneading hand.

He almost forgets how his muscles work when he takes in the sight before him. Her head bowed low, submissive, ponytail spread across her back and over one shoulder as she leans her head towards the countertop. The arch of neck, the flow of her skin into the red dress, and down, down her long torso, so long for someone so short, so easy to move—fabric that had accentuated her nicely all night but now, stretched across her shoulder blades, pulled tight against the dip of her waist and the flare–

Rick feels his own nostrils flaring, uncontrollably, and he takes his hand off her breast, ignoring her bitten-back indignation, and settles both hands on the sides of her hips. She goes very very still then, although he isn't gripping her hard; but even though they are not pressed together airtight she must feel the hardness of his cock, how it leaps at the sight and feel of the ass presented before him.

He exhales as stoically as he can, which is to say not at all, not nearly at all, because for the first time since he came up behind her he realizes that this is real; that she's here at his mercy with her pussy practically pressed against his aching cock with just a few layers of denim and felt in the way. Beth Greene's ass is in his lecherous hands, and save Carl walking in he isn't letting go for anything.

“Fuck,” he hisses, squeezing a little, enjoying how her shoulder blades draw in with the motion. “Sweetheart, you know how beautiful you are?”

She doesn't say anything, and he doesn't expect her to; he just keeps kneading the globes of her ass, grinding a little with his hips before drawing away to make room for his hands, working her together and spreading her apart. It's during a spread that she whimpers, and Rick can't help the grin that leaps across his face.

“You like how that feels baby?” he asks in that voice, the voice still not his own, belonging to something different, monstrous. “You like being wide open like that? Pretty pussy all spread for me?”

She wiggles, whimpering again, and he imagines it; her underwear held tight in his spreading hands, pulling up sharply at the front, squeezing between her lips, teasing her little clit.

He swats her on the ass—not hard, just enough to get her attention—and she stops moving, even as he grabs the fabric tighter beneath his hands, pulls harder until she's shaking.

“None of that,” he says.

“Rick...” she whispers.

“What is it baby?” he whispers back, letting his whiskers ghost across her ear, her cheek, feel her full-body shudder as his thumb finds its way between the globes of her ass and presses the fabric down. “Tell me.”

“I–, I don't... Rick, _please_.”

She wiggles back against him, helpless, desperate for friction. He spanks her again for it, and she goes still with a jump.

“I said none of that.” He leans close again, gives her the hot press of his cock and his breath on her ear. “You tell me what you want and I'll give it to you, baby. I'll give you everything.”

“I've never...”

And Rick pauses. Freezes, really, his entire body locking in place as his blood-deprived brain struggles to comprehend her words.

“You've never what, Beth?” he asks hoarsely.

She looks back at him, and he almost shoves her to the counter and fucks her right there. Her lips are red, bitten red, cheeks pink and blotchy and eyes wide as dinner plates, tears clinging to their corners. She bites her lip as she looks at him, his eyes to his lips and back again, and he can't help the way his hands flex against her ass.

“I've never fucked anyone, Rick,” she whispers. “I've never fucked anyone.”

Rick takes several moments to digest her words, let them filter through the rush of blood behind his ears, before he grabs the hair along the side of her head and forces her forward, pushing her down until her cheek is pressed to the counter, shaking.

“And you aren't fucking anyone tonight,” he whispers, cock pounding, his entire weight pressing her into the cabinets. “I'm fucking you. I'll fuck you so good, Beth.”

She doesn't move when he takes his hand off her head, but he can feel her eyes straining to watch him as he straightens as much as he needs to so he can pull her dress up over her ass. He goes slowly, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he reveals her—the white tights, dark purple panties beneath them, and in the center–

“Oh pretty girl, you're dripping for me,” he says, pressing on the wet spot with his thumb, thrilling to the way she whimpers, trying to stay quiet as he presses the fabric between her pussy lips, feels her delicious wet. “That's gonna be all over my cock soon, you know that? All that for me.”

She must sense that he doesn't want her to say anything, and she doesn't; he can see her eyes squeezed tight and her knuckles white where she grips the counter.

He takes his hand away and scrunches the fabric on either side of her hips in his hands, drawing it down.

He leaves her panties and tights around the tops of her thighs and takes his time to look. To really see. He groans, knuckles his cock as he looks where he's about to put it, her pussy lips red and puffing out and covered in a light dusting of blonde hair that shimmers in the kitchen light. He brushes his finger up and down her slit and she twitches but otherwise stays still; he breathes heavily as he looks at her asshole squeezed tight, the way she strains to widen her stance for him and in the next moment draw her legs back together in shame.

He slaps the inside of her thigh and she whimpers. Her knees are shaking, he notices; she's holding almost all her weight on her torso on the counter, but she still takes the hint and stops trying to close her legs. Her eyes are still squeezed tight, he sees; he watches them as he rubs up and down her slit with more pressure, more and more until his finger slips inside it.

Her eyes shoot open and he groans aloud at how fucking wet she is—a fucking flood coating his fingers as he works them between her lips, feels the crinkles of her inner labia, bares his teeth when she jumps as his finger nudges her clit. He wants to take the time to explore—see how she's different from Lori, and even this perfunctory exam shows how different she is, the way she's built, how she reacts to him, the pitch of her whimpers—but his cock is so hard it's painful, and something tells him they'll be doing this again.

Not something. He'll make this happen again. He'll pay her a Christmas bonus every day of the fucking week to make this happen again.

“Rick–”

“Shh,” he murmurs, nudging her clit again before sliding back, pressing down just hard enough for her to feel it. She'd feel it anyway; she's so tiny her cunt lips are practically wrapped around his fingers, and if that's just her lips–

She goes completely still when he slides his middle finger inside her.

He wonders if she'd be scared if she could see his smile right now. He wonders if he would be.

“Rick–” she says again, a tinge of desperation in her tone now. “Rick, I can't–”

“Quiet, pretty girl,” he murmurs. His own voice is strained now.

She's tight. She's soaking and warm and so fucking tight that when he crooks his finger her whole pelvis moves with him. She gasps when he does that, moves her hips restlessly and when he crooks his finger again he feels a rough patch and she cries out like he's hit her.

“Shh,” he says, glancing towards the stairs before leaning a little closer. “You don't want Carl to wake up, do you? God, what do you think he'd think, finding you like this–”

 _Finding_ you _like this_ , a voice whispers in Rick's head, but Beth whimpers and he pushes it away.

“His babysitter giving it up,” he says, pushing into the spot that made her cry out again, grinning when she stifles her moan between her teeth. “Ass in the air, dripping all over the fucking floor— _god_ he'd be so _disgusted_ with you–”

He jabs at the spot inside her on the word “ _disgusted_ ,” making her jump again and–

Grind back against him.

Rick's mouth drops open as he watches her. It's subtle and she could deny it but it's there—hips moving, thighs tightening, and when she realizes he isn't continuing his rhythm, pussy _squeezing_ , and his eyes almost roll back in his head when he imagines his cock in the place of his hand.

 _He has to fuck her_.

“But he isn't going to come down, is he? Cause you're gonna be quiet, right? Can you be quiet for me?”

“I will, I will, just–” She squeezes her pussy again, shifts on her feet. “Please can you, I, I don't know what–”

“I have to stretch you first,” he says, half talking to himself. He braces his other palm on her ass, hand spread wide and squeezing and he can't stop looking at her asshole, it's so fucking _cute_ – “Don't wanna hurt you. Not this time.”

“Oh,” she breathes, and then breathes again as he pulls his finger out until he's only in to the first knuckle and sinks it back in again. And again. Again, keeping it straight and avoiding her g-spot on purpose and watching with an open mouth as her pussy leaks down his hand and onto his wrist.

“You like that?” he asks, whispers, bends over her more so she feels his hovering presence against her back. Christ his dick hurts. “What am I doing? What am I doing. Beth?”

“You're fucking me,” she whispers. “With your finger, you're–, oh my god–”

“You want more?”

She nods, rapid and desperate and from this angle he can see she still has her eyes squeezed tight.

“Show me how much,” he whispers.

She doesn't hesitate.

Her whole body moves as she rolls her hips back, fucking herself onto his finger. He shoves her forward with his hand on her ass and she pushes right back, rocking her pelvis up and down, giving him views of her asshole and clit both.

He can't say no to that.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and adds another finger.

Her fists clench and unclench on the countertop as she rolls her hips, twitching in discomfort as she stretches too far, gasping when he scissors his fingers inside her. He can tell she's hurting but it isn't long before she's fucking back against him again, just as clumsy and desperate as before, and when he sees her hand begin to move down across the countertop he takes his hand off her ass and lunges forward, replacing its weight with his body and pinning her wrist to the counter.

“Where do you think that's going?” he hisses in her ear and _oh christ_ that's her hip against his dick and when she fucks onto his fingers again she's also dragging herself across his aching flesh.

“I need–, I need more–”

He shoves her hand above her head, drawing a gasp and then a gasp again when he grinds down and she must realize what that is pressing into her and if anything that makes him pulse even _harder,_ need even more to unzip his pants and just plunge into her–

So why doesn't he?

She seems confused at first when he pulls his body weight off her, doesn't open her eyes and look back for several moments. She meets his eyes. It's the first time she's met his eyes in a long time and the _fear_ there, the fucking innocent terror, damn near makes him growl.

“Spread your legs,” he says, bringing his hands to his belt, watching her watch him, seeing the swallow worming its way down her throat. “Leave the tights.” She nods slowly, settling into a stance with her legs spread as wide as possible, the fabric of her tights straining against her mid-thighs. She can barely get herself open more than a few inches, but it's enough to see how soaked she is, and he can't help stepping forward and pressing a palm against her pretty pussy before returning to his pants.

She wouldn't be able to see his dick from this angle but she's shaking like a leaf by the time he gets it out, hissing loudly as he finally grasps it, thinks how fucking hard he's been for her, tonight, for _weeks_ , how many times he's come thinking of her completely at his mercy, _tonight_ when he came, and even the alcohol in his system isn't inhibiting his erection one bit.

She's still a little drunk, he can tell; she's flushed around the face and neck, eyes unfocused and pleas slurred, and when he puts his hand on her shoulder she doesn't tense but goes liquid, shifting up and down on her toes but otherwise staying still. Staying good for him.

He leans down across her, being careful to keep his pounding dick from touching her as he plasters himself to her back, licks a line from her spine to her shoulder as she shakes, drifts his lips to her ear. “I'm going to fuck you,” he whispers. “You ok with that?”

“I don't know–”

“I don't care,” he whispers, biting her earlobe, soothing it with his tongue. “You think you're so pure, don't you? Pretty little Beth Greene with her little tits and fat ass,” he squeezes her ass as he says it, making her whimper, “But that ain't you much longer. You're gonna take whatever the fuck I give you and you'll _beg_ me for it.” He gives her a few moments to process that, inching her dress farther up her sides so her whole lower back is bare. “You gonna beg?”

“Rick, I don't know if I want to–”

He takes his dick in hand and presses it between her legs and that shuts both of them up.

He doesn’t enter her. Not yet, not even as his entire body shakes for it. He wants to remember this in all its exquisite detail: Beth Greene pinned to the counter in front of him, too drunk and confused to get away, tights around her thighs and his dick between her whore legs, the length pressing between her pussy lips as he guides it forward, slides it back, doesn't stifle his moan as he feels her slickness slipping between his knuckles.

“Yeah, you want this,” he whispers against her cheek, grazing her with his incisors as he pushes forward until his hips are flush against her ass and he can flutter the head of his dick against her clit, make her squirm. “Such a slut, dripping and messy—been walking around here all this time wanting this, wanting me to fuck you–”

“You gonna do it or just talk about it?” she asks through gritted teeth.

He pinches her side in retaliation—not hard, but hard enough to make her jump—and crowds her even further, pressing her forward until he's sure the pressure of the counter against her hips and lower stomach much be painful.

“I told you,” he murmurs, sliding his palm up and down the spot he'd savaged, fingers almost all the way up her ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. “I'm gonna make you beg, remember?”

He nudges her clit with his dick again, and she moans—soft and stifled and not meant to be heard and he does it again, harder, making sure she feels the pre-cum leaking from him like a faucet.

“You feel how hard I am? How wet I am for you?” he asks, now against the side of her mouth, lips brushing her in perverse kiss. “You know what this'll feel like jammed in your pussy? It'll feel like nothing you've ever felt, darling. I'm gonna fucking _destroy_ you.”

Nudging her clit again, making her squirm, and then working his hand between them, circling his dick even as he brushes her entrance, pushes his finger inside her again. She's still tight enough to make him pant, but she's loosening—he wants to fuck her and some part of him wants to scare her, scare her _bad_ , but he doesn't want to hurt her so much she'll never come back— _It isn't wrong if I don't hurt her_ , he whispers to himself—and he quickly adds another finger, working her clit clumsily with his cock as he works her insides with his fingers, grinning against her cheek as she struggles to keep her moans muffled.

“Don't do that, darling,” he whispers, thrusting faster, his hips and his fingers, taking his other hand from her side and circling it around her front to press into both her clit and his cockhead, massage them both. “You don't need to be quiet for me.”

“But... Carl...”

“Is all the way upstairs,” he says, a bit of panting entering his own voice. “You're all the way down here. All alone, Beth. All alone with me.”

She whines and he works her clit harder, pulling his cock back so he doesn't come too soon, using his hips and stomach to keep her pressed firmly into his fingers. He finds her g-spot and she's fucking herself back again, almost reluctantly, her whines building into deep guttural moans that rumble through his bones.

“You wanna come, baby?” he murmurs. “I might not let you come again. I'm being nice now, you know. Getting you ready for my cock like this. I could'a just fucked you in the beginning. I could'a bent you over and fucking shoved into you–”

“Rick,” she moans breathily, hips rolling clumsily, his fingers pressing with all their strength now, “Rick, I don't know what's–, I feel, I feel–”

“You've never come either?” he asks, his voice breaking a little and his cock spurting pre-cum across her inner thigh, “Well baby girl, you just relax, imma make you come–”

She's breathing like she's running a marathon and he doubts he's much better, but he's hardly aware of himself—he's his fingers sunk in her wet and his cock hard and aching and his hot breath bouncing off her cheek and back into his face as he scrapes his teeth across her skin, delighting in the way she attempts to press closer even as she twitches away. She doesn't seem to be much herself either, working her hips like his dick is already inside her, chasing his fingers on her clit and inside her and when her whines gain in pitch and her walls begin to flutter he knows she's close and he's about ready to burst out of his own skin.

“Rick, oh, _oh_ –”

“Hold on, baby,” he hisses, rubbing her clit in firm circles and jabbing at her g-spot as she writhes under him, “Just a little more, come on, let go for me, you can come, come on–”

It's like the permission is all she needs—before he's even done speaking he feels her juices flooding his hand as she seizes, mouth open and he licks at the crease of her lips as she convulses, crying out and then whimpering, shaking, trying to get away from his fingers but finding nowhere to go.

He takes mercy, though; slides the hand that was on her clit up her stomach, bringing the one from inside her to her ass cheek, spreading it, smearing her juices all across her pale skin. He presses his body into her again, not caring if she feels his cock lurch as his stomach comes in contact with her wetness, as he follows the trail of liquid dripping down her inner thigh with his hand. She's panting, panting hard, eyes closed as she licks her lips and then he's twisting his neck and licking them for her, tasting the lingering port and her own desperation.

“Now you beg,” he hisses, trading breath, open mouth pressed to hers. “What do you want, little Beth? You tell me what you want.”

“I–, I–”

“You want this?” Rick asks, maneuvering his dick between her legs again, sliding it through her sopping pussy until it's as wet as she is. “You want my big dick in you?” Beth mumbles something unintelligible and Rick seizes her by the hair, yanking her head back into a painful arch as she cries out. “Speak up baby.”

“I want, I want it–”

“Want what?”

She whispers something he can't hear even pressed against her as he is, and he yanks her hair again, feels spittle fly from her mouth to his.

“Want _what_ , you cunt?”

“Your cock,” she whimpers, voice breaking on the second word. “Please, Rick, I want–, I can't help it, I want it, I want your cock, _please_ –”

“I wanna give it to you,” he whispers, finally, finally nudging his dick towards her entrance. It's a tight fit, so tight with her tights trapping her legs together, and he uses his hand to angle her hips so her back lies in a deep bend, her pussy pointed out and up. “Tell me what a slut you are, Beth. Tell me how much you've wanted this.”

“I've, I'm not–”

He pulls his dick away from her and he almost laughs at how desperately she squirms after it.

“I am, I am!” she gasps thickly, shoving back against his implacable weight, “I'm a s-slut, I am, please, f-fuck me Rick, please–”

He doesn't say anything as he lines up once more and pushes inside her.

He wants to let go—let go from the beginning, shove her face into the puddle of her own spit gathering on the counter and spear his cock deep inside her—but she's still tight from the position and her own body and he doesn't think he could last more than a few thrusts. So he presses his forehead into her sweaty neck, panting like a hurricane as she quakes under him, holding the base of his own dick as he enters her an inch at a time. She's silent, completely silent, and when he lifts his head he sees her mouth gaping open, eyes stretched wide as she breathes into shuddering lungs.

“You feel that?” Rick asks, alarming himself a little with how much his own voice is shaking, “That's my dick, baby. My big dick, it's inside you. That ain't even all of it. You want all of it, honey? You want all of it?”

But she seems beyond speech at this point. Whimpers and gropes behind herself, fingers grazing Rick's shoulder before he grabs her wrist and pins it to the counter in front of her face. He backs out until only the head of his dick is inside her, her cunt grasping at him like lips at a straw, and pushes back in—still slow, still tortured, but he can feel her opening up around him and the next time he draws out he thrusts in farther, only his hips moving as he stays pressed to her back, her lower back hot and sweaty against his stomach.

“Ohhh,” she moans, voice a tremble.

“That's right, that's it, let me in–”

She does. He feels it the moment her inner muscles finally loosen and she does, and he does, slamming his hips forward so hard his balls slap against her.

“Yes,” she gasps.

It's all the encouragement he needs, and he does it again, and again and again until he has to push his chest off her back to give himself leverage, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes to slits so he can watch her jerk back and forth on the counter as he grabs her hip, holds her steady as his other hand tightens on her wrist and he fucking _gives_ it to her.

At first she tries to match his rhythm but quickly gives up, lying like a rag-doll as he pounds into her, the only sounds in the kitchen Rick's harsh breathing and the slapping of their skin and the gusts of breath that he hammers out of her.

And then he's talking.

“You're gonna get it,” Rick hisses through his teeth, not even sure he knows what he's saying anymore, talking just to talk because her cunt feels like honey and his own strength isn't enough. “You're gonna get it, you little bitch, you're gonna–, _shit_ , fuck, ah, honey, you feel so good, want to punch your cunt through your fucking _throat_ , just like–, yes, yes, milk me, honey, just like that, _christ_ –”

Somehow his hand has slid from her wrist to her hand and she's clutching him desperately, squeezing his fingers just like her cunt squeezes his cock, and god her cunt, her _cunt_ , fresh and young and barely willing but desperate in the way only a virgin can be—not that he'd know, not beyond Lori and he was scared just as shitless as she was, but he isn't scared this time—is beyond any emotion he can put words to even as he continues to babble about how good she feels, how she's his now, now, his pussy and his cunt and she better fucking never wear pants around him again cause he wants to do this, flip up her skirt every day and every night and take what's his, shove into her cunt and pound her till she's begging him to stop–

She isn't begging him to stop. She's found her voice again and she's babbling too—nothing beyond “yes” and “please” and “don't stop, oh god, Rick, _god_ ” and every word is like a lightning rod through his cock as he slams her into the counter, hunching over her again and jackrabbiting inside her as her whines build and grow in intensity.

“Mine,” he growls.

He comes inside of her.

He doesn't think, as far as he's able to think anything, that he's ever come like this—coming like he's been kicked in the skull, vision blaring white as he practically roars into her shoulder, muffling the noise in her skin as he keeps thrusting and feels her contracting around him, and she must have gotten her free arm under herself because he feels her wrist brush against him as she works her clit and comes with a groan of her own...

He collapses on top of her. Not pressing, not crushing—just a collapse, his whole body heaving as he fights to get his breath back, closing his eyes as her cunt continues to contract around him, slow steady squeezes that peter out, out, and finally away.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, and after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, again, for Rick's dub-con fantasies.
> 
> Hopefully the title makes even more sense now ;)

He becomes aware of his surroundings slowly. He lingers, listens to the storm battering the windows and walls, wailing. _I didn't hear that before_ , he thinks, cheek resting on Beth's sweaty shoulder. He wonders if the storm had been inside him for a while, if he...

He blinks, gets one shaky arm under himself on the counter, the other hand still half-grasped in Beth's limp grip. He looks down at her.

He'd think her dead if not for her slow, shallow breaths, the heartbeat he feels in her thumb. He'd think her dead.

“Beth?” he croaks.

Her lips part a few moments before her eyes flutter open, blinking like his did, like they've been closed for far too long. He takes a step back and they both gasp when his cock slips from her cunt, smacking wetly against his leg as he sees her pussy muscles squeeze around nothing, then release and...

A trickle of white. Her legs slathered with wet and her pubic hair sopping and a thin stream of his cum sliding, bubbling from inside of her, a line of snow between her reddened thighs.

She's standing before he can process anything else. Just as shaky as he was, if not more-so—no, definitely more-so; her whole body is shaking, tiny, almost invisible tremors as she leans on the counter, winces as her bent spine straightens.

And he wants, suddenly, more than anything, for her not to turn around. For this to be the last image, the last memory he has of her, because the moment she turns he'll see her eyes and those...

So expressive. Warming him from the inside out or cutting him like a knife.

She'll gut him now, he knows it. Whether with anger or hurt, when she looks at him he won't be able to... he'll have to explain it. Tell her why he didn't listen to her reluctance, why he... _fuck_ , why he shoved his babysitter face-first into the kitchen counter and fucked her brains out. He did that. He got his dick inside Beth Greene. He fucked her until she can barely stand and she's turning–

More terrifying than being able to read her eyes is for them to be inscrutable, and that's what they are. They're wide, shimmering, pupils slowly shrinking down and so, so blue above the red of her cheek where it was pressed to the counter. Her ponytail is halfway out of its binds and her dress sits crooked across her shoulders. He wants to reach forward and straighten it, align it with her collarbones where they press against her nearly translucent skin, skin that's already purpling in a line down from her ear... he didn't think he sucked that hard...

He knows her dress is still pulled up above her hips, her tights and panties around her thighs and he hasn't seen the front of her pussy yet, and he could, but he can't look down. Finds himself shaking as hard as she is as she looks him over; from what he knows must be mussed hair and a red and sweaty face—he doesn't want to know what she sees in his eyes, let him close them, please—and down, down his sweater to below his stomach where his flaccid cock now lies. It's covered in her. It must shimmer.

Her eyes flick back to his face and he realizes that although he stepped back he isn't very far from her at all. It was only one step and he'd been close—he'd been _inside_ her, and he'd only moved back one step.

Fumbling, he shoves his dick inside his underwear, does up his jeans. She releases a pent up breath and he feels it on his face and he remembers what feels like years ago, what it was like to kiss her... god, he wants to kiss her, wants to bring her upstairs and lay her down and beg her forgiveness...

Faster than he can process her hands shoot out to grasp his arms and shove him down to his knees.

His breath leaves him in a gush as his kneecaps bang painfully against the tile, and he'd probably tip over if her hands didn't remain on his shoulders. They're strong—when did she get so strong?—holding him up, holding him in place, and even though her pussy is right in front of him he can't look away from her eyes.

Once she's certain he won't keel over, she bends—rolls her tights down one leg, then the other, kicks them away with her panties. She's looking at him and the wind is wailing and his own breathing is harsh in his ears and then she's pulling herself up onto the counter—not much of a height—and taking hold of his hair as she spreads her legs.

Her eyes flicker down and his follow.

He doesn't think he's ever made this noise before—something between a grunt and a whine because he loved her from the back, her cute little asshole and her swelling cheeks and the way her flushed pussy lips bulged out–

This is different.

He's closer, for one—can see the spiderwebs of her cum surrounding her clit, still red and swollen and big, bigger than he thought it would be, bigger than it felt—and there's his cum, again. White and creamy against her translucent fluids as she tilts her hips up like she wants him to see–

He looks up and she's still inscrutable, still a mystery, but her grip on his hair hasn't wavered and he suddenly feels very, very scared.

“Beth,” he says again, wanting to say...

His mouth gapes around it like the words are a physical force keeping his lips apart, because what can he say? What can he say when she's looking at him like that?

She ducks her chin and breathes out, long, slow. She shifts on the counter and his eyes flick back down and his cum is making a puddle on the granite now; his claim on her, deep inside and leaking out...

“Rick.”

He looks up and realizes that the person breathing harshly is him.

She tightens her grip on his hair, breathes out again. Then tugs. Tugs him towards her.

His eyebrows furrow and he looks at her and says ”Beth?” and she stops pulling, holds him there, his chin almost on the counter and the smell—the smell of pussy, of a full, well-fucked pussy, his own familiar scent and her own arousal...

He looks up, braces his hands against the cabinet. “Beth, what are you doing?”

She looks down at him, and her face breaks open. And she laughs.

He sits there on his knees, blinking as she erupts into laughter and then into giggles and with his cock sated for now he remembers what attracted him to this girl in the first place.

But she's still laughing, and he has a feeling she's laughing at him.

He scowls, trying for the first time to pull back against her hand. “What the fuck–“

She doesn't let him go anywhere. Tightens her hold as her giggles peter out and she's just looking down at him, a smile that he swears is a little bit wicked on her face.

“I don't know what's going–“

“You got me drunk so you could fuck me.”

Rick stares at her, mouth opening and closing, his scalp beginning to numb under the pull of her fingers.

“Right?” she says, and he hardly thinks it's a question at all.

“I–, I wasn't trying–“

“Bullshit,” she says, and except for when he was fucking her he thinks that's the foulest-sounding word he's ever heard come out of her mouth. There is still a bit of laughter in her face, but there's steel too. “You did.”

“Beth, I'm so–“

“Don't say you're sorry,” she says. “You're not. If you were you wouldn't have done it in the first place.”

That leaves Rick reeling, and he gapes at her, still breathing heavily and still close enough that he can practically taste her pussy in the air he breathes. Now that it's clear he isn't going anywhere, Beth's hand in his hair has softened; remains threaded through the strands, pushing in on his scalp in little presses, almost petting him. Something feels wrong about all this—all of it is wrong, from his position to her face to the hand in his hair—but there's also some trembling, whispering part of him that wants to sink even lower. Prostrate himself beneath her sitting on the counter, except then he wouldn't be within her reach and he thinks she wants to be touching him after what he did... what he _did_ , _fuck_ , he can still feel her juices drying on his cock and her hand is in his hair and his cum is still dripping from her pussy.

Her pussy, _jesus_ –

“Are you going to say anything?” Beth asks. Some of that eerie calm is gone, and even with her thighs spread around his head she looks a little more like what he's used to: a girl, a _girl_ , sweet and innocent and good with his children and nervous around him. Nervous like she has every right to be.

He's still loose with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his mind moving slow and sluggish, and it isn't until she gives his hair a sharp tug that he remembers she's waiting for an answer.

“Beth, what–, what can I do?” he asks, voice rasping. “I'm s–, I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear–“

“You didn't hurt me,” she says. “But you could have.” She shakes his head, just a little, but in this state it feels like she's wringing him out to dry. “Did you like that? You liked thinking about that.”

 _I did_ , Rick's mind whispers, but he can't say that, he can't–

“You liked that I was a virgin. You liked that you could do anything you wanted and I couldn't stop you.” She looks down past his eyes and blows air through her nose. “You still like it.”

And that's when Rick realizes he isn't limp anymore. His cock is filling, listening to her words, and it isn't just the words themselves or what they mean or what they make him imagine–

It's her knowing it. It's her knowing he wanted to scare her and leave her trembling. And she still looks a little scared and that sends a shiver all through him.

She stares at him, inexplicable, for a few more moments before drawing a deep breath in, letting it out. The movement stretches her tits against her dress and Rick realizes he hasn't seen them yet and he's about to ask her to take the dress off before it hits him how _stupid_ he's being.

Her hand tightens in his hair.

“You're gonna eat my p-pussy.”

Rick draws in a sharp breath. At the stutter, at her _words_ , at—at her shifting her legs even wider on the counter, how red and swollen she is where he had pounded into her, and his cum... his cum...

“I... can't.”

Beth barks out a laugh. “What, suddenly you don't have a mouth or something?”

He does have a mouth. He knows because he can't feel it very well right now. Can't control what it's saying.

“If you clean up...”

Beth blinks and looks down and draws in a sharp breath. He watches, can't look away, as her stomach muscles contract and a little more of him trickles out of her.

“No,” she says, and meets his eyes. He flinches away at the anger he sees. And the hurt. “You got me drunk so you could fuck me. And I'm not gonna forgive you for it. So you're gonna do this.”

Rick's eyes flicker back down to her pussy and he licks his lips. It isn't like he's never eaten pussy before—he was married for over a decade, and especially towards the beginning he'd move heaven and earth to keep Lori happy. And he enjoyed it. Enjoyed the feeling of her shuddering under him, long legs flexing, how she'd go boneless and goofy after like he'd put drugs on his tongue–

But that was always foreplay, or the act itself. She always started pink and soft and clean. And Beth...

She isn't that at all. Her pussy is swollen and red from where he'd pushed inside it, slapped against it, still sticky with her cum. And with him. His cum, leaking out of her onto the counter.

Something in him backs away from that. Doesn't want to think about what it would mean to put his mouth on her and taste...

It's like being on the wrong end of a porno.

He could deny her this. Resist it. Pull away from her hand and tower over her, make her shrink back into the counter until she falls against the cupboards, eyes wide with sweet fear as he tells her to get a fucking clue, _sweetheart_. This goes one way and it's his way and she'd slither like a rag doll when he pulls her to the floor, make her do to him what she wants him to do to her, taste her cum, taste her cum all over him, and he isn't a young man anymore but he could get hard— _fuck_ , with her mouth on him he'd get hard in moments, hard enough to fuck into her throat, feel her drool and spit and gag on her own taste as tears leak from her eyes and he fucks his slut into the counter–

But the fantasy is more fleeting than he expects it to be, and far less potent than his imaginings before. Maybe that monster's been sated. Maybe now that he's had her his brain will stop being so fucked up, will be like it used to be...

But there's no used to be. He thought these things when he was married—rarely about Lori, but he thought them. Didn't let himself indulge, in thought or action. But he wanted it. Shit, the time he made love to Lori when she had a bruise on her cheek from falling against a doorknob...

But the thought has already faded, and in its place is what's before him: his babysitter's pussy and her warm thighs around it and, yes, his own spunk still dripping from inside her. His spunk and hers—her wanting, the wet of that, smeared on her thighs and her lips and tangled in her pubic hair. And his own mouth watering cause he thinks–

He looks back into her eyes. She still looks stern, set on her course, but there's a question. Questioning what he'll do. If he'll pull out of her grasp. Refuse her this. Fuck her once more and see her go.

Or if he'll stay. And she'll stay.

_You got me drunk so you could fuck me._

The way she laughed...

He swallows, sucking the pool of saliva in his mouth deep into his gullet, licks his lips again. Feels the tense muscles in his temples and cheeks relax. Sees Beth relax too—her shoulders come down a little, the wrinkles in her forehead smoothed. She breathes out.

Before she breathes in again he has his mouth against her.

Strangled gasp, fingers tight in his hair, not pulling or pushing but finding something to do as Rick licks at the crease of her thigh—left, then right, tastes what he's been smelling in her sweet arousal. He begins to feel lightheaded, but not like before. Not like he's being taken over, but like he's letting something in.

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and licks between her lips.

If someone'd started on his cock this way he'd think them pathetic. It's barely a lick; he wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't even feel it. He isn't licking her. He's licking...

It's stronger than he thought it would be. More potent, the salty cream on his tongue, what came out of his own fucking dick–

She's definitely pulling now. Dragging him in by his hair so the lick becomes a lap and he tastes her too, and something about that combination—not just her, but _him_ and her—sends a rumble deep down to his bones.

“Eat it,” Beth whispers, and Rick cuts his eyes up at her, grins despite himself when she blushes under his scrutiny. But she's already blushing—flushed, all the way to the neck of her red dress. “C'mon, Rick,” she says, mouth flexing like it's still figuring out how to form the words, “Eat my...”

She stops, shivering when Rick licks her again—along her outer lips where he tastes only her, her pubic hair coarser than he expected it to be and drenched against his tongue—and she frowns when she feels him grin again against her.

“Can't even say it, honey?”

Her eyes harden, and he can't deny the bolt of fear that shoots through his spine.

“Eat my _pussy_.” He opens his mouth to do just that, but she continues. “Eat your cum, Rick. Suck yourself out of my cunt. Come _on_.”

He doesn't think. He falls on her.

He's only ever been with Lori and he learns quickly that what worked on her doesn't do the same for Beth—swiping sideways across her inner lips doesn't make her spasm, pressing just so doesn't make her cry out. So he fumbles, pulling back to look at her pussy again, lick his lips and raise his hands to hook around her thighs, holding her steady so he can try again.

This time goes better. He tastes his spunk on his tongue again and unconsciously follows it to its source, licking at her spongy entrance and deep as he can go–

She gasps, arches her back, drops her legs farther open. There it is. _There_.

And before he knows it he's doing exactly what she asked—prodding with his tongue and sealing his lips and _sucking_ , opening her up to draw more of himself out, tasting the salt and the musk and knowing it came out of him into her, that he filled her up and she's spilling out and here he is to take it back...

Beth is panting heavily above him and he knows her little tits must be heaving but he can't find a way to tear his eyes away from his task—too close to see it clearly but it doesn't matter when his tongue can do the seeing for him, leaving her entrance and licking down between her asscheeks, thumbs spreading, making her jump when he tongues lower than she expects and the thought of eating himself out of _there_ –

He doesn't let himself follow that train of thought; follows instead the patterns of her moans as her other hand tangles in his hair too and she begins to squirm almost too wildly to hold down. He can hardly taste himself anymore, even when his chin brushes the puddle on the counter, even when he finds himself dipping his tongue into it like a dog—tastes only her, _her_ , his skinny little babysitter leaking her juices all over his face, her thighs fighting to close even as he pushes them apart, holds her back so he can suck on one lip then the other, release them with a _pop_ and return his rough tongue to her inner folds where he feels her starting to tremble–

“Oh, Rick, _oh_ , oh god, _god_ –“

Rick hums—he _growls_ , he growls in answer—pushing his tongue against her entrance again before working higher until his lips close around her nub and she's _pulsing_ —this little girl, this fucking _slut_ , on the edge of coming in his mouth–

He can't hold himself back anymore. Doesn't want to. Forgets anything to do with technique as he centers on her clit and kisses it in loud, obscene _smacks_ , finally letting go of her thighs and circling his hands around her to grab hold of her ass as her legs slam together around his head and she tries to muffle herself with her own closed lips–

It doesn't work. When she comes the cry bursts out of her loud enough that he knows someone awake upstairs could hear it, but he knows it only tangentially—knows more the feeling of her juices bursting against his chin and her clit pounding, pounding harder than before as her thighs grind against his ears and he sends his own moan into her cunt and he doesn't stop—although her legs stay locked she's begging with him and pulling on his hair but he ignores her, opening his mouth like he could swallow her whole as he sends her over the edge again...

When her legs loosen and she starts pushing weakly at his forehead he lets her go—takes one last slurp from her leaking cunt and falls back on his heels, still between her legs and panting too, panting harder than he expects to be. His jaw hurts—it clicks when he stretches it, and he looks up at her...

She's slumped backwards, her head balanced awkwardly against the overhead cabinet as she breathes in deep and slow, clearly measuring her breathing. Her eyes are closed, flickering behind her lids, eyelashes casting gentle shadows on her flushed cheeks.

“Beth,” he says.

She opens her eyes, looks around dazedly like she's been hit on the head and finally focuses on him. Her eyes open wider and she gasps.

“Rick...” she says.

He can only imagine what she sees. His whole face drenched with her, juices already drying in his beard and slathered across his cheeks, his hair wild from her clutching hands. In his mind he sees a slash of white along his jawline and he himself shivers even as he leans forward and licks Beth's inner thigh again.

“Yes?” he asks, his teeth closing on her skin and lips sucking until she has to push at his forehead again.

“Rick,” she says, laughter in her voice now, “Rick, _stop_.”

He does, pulling back far enough that she can close her legs completely, pull her skirt down to cover her pussy lips— _demure_ again, and he feels his cock pulse in equal parts annoyance and amusement that she would try to hide from him now.

He wants to ask if they're even now, but he doesn't think she'd take that well. So he stays quiet as she gathers herself, slides down off the counter (flashing him in the process, despite all her efforts) to support herself on shaky legs. Rick stands, fights through the head rush until his vision clears and he can see her in front of him. Her eyes are wide and even knowing her cum is on his face she looks _young_ again—so fucking young, and he thinks again that if he pushed her down to her knees for a few minutes he could get hard enough to fuck her again.

But one of them already had a lesson on their knees tonight. It's time to let go of that.

For now.

Rick breathes out slowly, pushes his dick to the back of his mind as he raises a hand and cups Beth's cheek. She looks at him, eyes flickering between his, and he feels a sharp _twist_ in his chest that almost makes him gasp.

She's young. Way too young. And so beautiful.

“I'll get you something to sleep in,” he says.

Beth continues to study him, then smiles. Just a small one, but it still makes the breath catch in his throat.

“Sleep with you?”

 _Leading her upstairs in bare feet, foregoing the view he knows he could have, the nothing beneath her dress. Not leaving the room even as he knows she waits for him to go. Watching her shake a little more as she pulls her dress over her head, hurrying in spite of herself as she changes into a shirt and sweatpants—_ his _shirt and sweatpants, swallowing her up but still old, thin, feeling like nothing at all when he slides into his marriage bed behind her and presses his half-hard cock into her ass, twists her nipples through the shirt, cups her pussy and sucks at her neck and doesn't let either of them go to bed until they both come again. Waking her in the morning with his fingers in her cunt, biting her shoulder when her hand sneaks back between them to massage his cock. Painting her fingers, the back of his old shirt, watching as she sucks him off herself with shaking lips. Ignoring the sounds of Carl stirring as he pushes her down beneath the sheets and feels her lips seal around his softened cock until it isn't so soft and he can pull her up and lift her ankles above their heads..._

He almost groans. Almost. Because he knows the understanding they've come to. The one she made sure he arrived at.

“Not this time,” he says.

Her smile softens into something else. Almost like she's proud of him. And that _twist_ hovers on the edge of something like an _ache_ and without thinking much about it he leans down and kisses her.

It doesn't register for several moments that she might find tasting herself on his tongue offensive. She certainly doesn't act like she does, or even like the taste shocks her. She falls into his kiss with immediate grace, lips soft and pliable and so yielding as he gives her his tongue, presses hers to the bottom of her mouth so he can linger on her tastebuds, the back of her teeth. She moans so sweetly, pressing towards him on her toes but otherwise remaining still, malleable, letting him put his free hand on her waist, low on her waist, lower, drift his middle finger across her creamy leg. She shivers but still doesn't move—not to brace herself on his chest, not to press into his touch; just stands there and opens to him like a flower in the sun.

At long last he releases her mouth, moves back slowly enough that their lips stick together until the elasticity bounces them back. He looks down at her, her hands at her sides and her heels dropping slowly to the floor and his hand tightens on her leg, slides from her cheek to her neck. He feels dizzy.

“There are so many ways I want to fuck you,” he hears himself whisper, and the breath she sucks in sounds like a whistle. He licks across her parted lips, stomach clenching as he feels them tremble. He presses his forehead to hers, pulls her dress up until he knows her pussy lips are peeking through. Still she stands immobile. “I want to fuck you _up_ ,” he hisses, digs his thumb into the tendons below her collarbone, feels her gasp again, sway, freeze as his fingers drift across her windpipe. “I want to take you upstairs and tie you down and _ruin_ you.”

Shaking a little, he pulls back just enough to see her eyes, so she can see his. She looks struck, but not fearful. Not even surprised.

He wonders if she knew this about him all along.

He swallows and closes his eyes and kisses her again—without tongue, for far shorter a time, almost like an apology—and when he pulls back he stays, as before, close enough to linger. To share breath.

“But not tonight,” she says.

He opens his eyes and she's smiling that smile again, the one close to pride. He swallows and nods, eyes fluttering shut when she drifts a hand up and down his arm.

At last he pulls himself away; wrenches himself, really, a groan in his throat, and Beth looks caught between laughter and a groan of her own.

“Not tonight,” he says, and after one last look goes upstairs alone.

* * *

She's in the downstairs bathroom when he returns, and he knows well enough not to knock; leaves her pajamas and an extra blanket on the sofa arm where she's sure to see it and retreats to his own bathroom.

He sucks in a breath when he sees himself. It feels like years since he stood here at the bathroom sink, and it feels like just minutes, too; since a branch struck the window and he looked at himself and dreamt up the excuse that would seal his fate. Seal hers.

Except nothing feels as sealed as he thought it would in that brief moment of decision. Maybe it's because he never let himself think of what would happen after. Maybe it's because Beth took the night so drastically out of his hands.

Maybe it's because of how he looks: lips red, cheeks red, everything red, red and glistening with sweat and her dried cum—her cum. He got it farther up than he thought he did; not just on his cheeks, but to his temples, in his _hair_. He doesn't see the white he imagined but when he licks his lips he can taste it. Faintly he tastes it, beneath all the layers of her.

Again he splashes water across his face; is more careful about not getting his top wet, adds a bit of soap so he won't wake up itchy. Part of him wishes he could leave it, but it's ok; he doesn't scrub too hard, and her smell still wafts up from his beard. He can sleep like that.

He takes off his sweater and puts on a t-shirt and slips into bed, sighing heavily as his body melts into the mattress. God, he and Lori spent a fortune on this boxspring. She convinced him to, she did; said she wanted something that would still be comfortable in 20 years, 30. They were so optimistic then.

But it _is_ comfortable, and even without a warm body to share it with Rick feels content. Fucked out and content, even though his dick still hasn't gone down completely. He doesn't know if it ever will, not when he knows who's just downstairs, wearing his clothes, all alone on that big couch he could crawl on top of–

 _Not tonight_.

He rolls onto his stomach so he can rub himself sleepily into the mattress and listen to the wind, the cold outside, still slapping branches against the windows.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to review :)


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